


Grief

by lycanus1



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6027910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lycanus1/pseuds/lycanus1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where the Pup reflects on loss, grief and his brethren.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief

**Author's Note:**

> A Galahad-centric fic - damned if I know how the Pup manages to con me into writing this for him ...   
> Inspired by the shot in the movie, of Tristan and Galahad standing by Dagonet's grave.
> 
> WARNING: contains strong language and deals with the brethren's reactions to the death of a major - well, I am extremely biased when it comes to this particular member of the "rabble" - character.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The KA lads never were mine, still aren't mine and never will be. Everything you recognize, belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer and Touchstone Pictures – gods-damnit ! No copyright infringement is intended.

**_Silent_ _anguish is the more dangerous_ \- Racine.**

I can't believe he's gone. That he's no longer with us. That we've all lost our beloved "big" brother. Our one constant in this fucking hell-hole. _Our rock ..._

I miss him ... There, I've said it and I wish to gods I hadn't. ‘Cause like the others - my brethren - I've been in denial ... knowing if I finally acknowledged what happe- ... if I admitted it, then ... then I'd _have_ to accept the one thing that I, _we_ , had refused to believe, was actually true. That our brother had gone above and beyond the call of duty.

That Dagonet's dead. That he'd willingly - selflessly - sacrificed himself for us.

Ever since it happened, since that fateful day on the ice-lake where we came into conflict with those Saxon bastards, I've not been able to rest. To succumb to sleep. 'Cause whenever I close my eyes, I see him. My dreams torment me. Plague me. Haunt me. As I know they haunt and plague my brethren. I see the same suffering and anguish they feel in their eyes. And we all hurt. We all feel the agony of his loss. And grieve in different ways.

I can _still_ see Dag in my mind's eye. In those precious, final moments as we took our stand upon the ice. He stood tall. Strong. Calm and resolute. He towered over the rest of us. His presence always gave us confidence. Hope. Maybe I was naive in my belief, but being the youngest, I truly thought Dag was invincible ... that whatever happened, he would always be there. Would overcome everything. Would never fail. _Never_ fall. I saw him as my talisman. The one I could always turn to for guidance, reassurance and sound advice. And now ... now that he's gone, I feel truly lost. Helpless. And without hope ...

Because in that final act ... In that one extremely brave, yet for Dagonet, unusually impulsive gesture, I finally understood what courage truly was. How strongly Dag felt about the rest of us. That the love he had for his brethren - the ones he clearly saw as his kin - far exceeded the value he placed upon his own life.

I doubt I'll ever be able to forget the look in Dag's gentle, silver eyes as he took his place next to his kinsman on the ice. There was a fleeting sorrow combined with worry in those pale, compassionate orbs that was swiftly replaced by a calm resignation. A resignation reinforced by the resolve on his rugged countenance. And before we could stop him, he'd placed his bastard sword on the ice, had grabbed his battle-axe and was sprinting towards the middle of the lake, ignoring Bors' frantic, horrified cries for him to return. I remember him hacking away at the lake's frozen surface. Raining strong, powerful blows to the ice with his lethally sharp axe. And I also remember the rain of arrows which glided through the air, aimed directly at him ... and the slow, paralyzing fear I felt as the first arrowhead pierced Dag's torso. The fear I felt for him. For us ...

Even now Bors' gruff voice resounds in my mind. The unconcealed terror in its tone as Dag fell amid the unrelenting hail of arrows. The sheer panic the older Roxolani felt as his beloved cousin slipped through the shattered ice, into the cold, murky depths. I can still hear Bors' desperate cries for help. See Arthur slide across the ice and drag Dag's unresponsive body out of the water and our gobby pugilist sinking to his knees, tearfully pleading, begging Dag to come to as both Gawain and Tristan run to their aid.

And I know I'll never forget our aloof, proud, impassive Scout's reaction. Seeing cracks for the first time in his ice-cold demeanour. Seeing him break ... and lose that infamous self-control of his. How he shouldered Arthur aside before sinking to his knees beside our fallen brother. The disbelief on his pale countenance, melting away as realization dawned upon him that Dagonet was lost. Lost to us. And more importantly, to him. How stricken our Aorsi death-dealer appeared ... The way his striking, golden eyes became shadowed with pain, fear and despair, before rage finally consumed him ... And that was the most shocking thing I've ever witnessed.

How for the first time in all the years I've known Tristan, that he showed genuine emotion. That he didn’t hide behind that wall of reserve and sarcasm. To see he was capable of feeling. And that he, like the rest of us, was human. Was capable of experiencing pain, not just physically, but emotionally as well ... And that Tristan was also capable of love and when he did love, he loved deeply. Intensely. Passionately. And with every fibre of his being ...

**_XXXXX_ **

So now, here we all are ... where none of us wish to be. At the graveside of one who meant everything to us. One who died far too soon. Needlessly. And before his time.

We're all in pain. Hurting badly. Some of us deal with it in different ways, but have no doubt about it, we _are_ grieving. And will continue to do so for a long time. Some of us may find that the loss becomes easier to bear over time. Others may not and will continue to mourn 'til the bitter end. Like I said, we all deal with loss, with grief, in various ways. And some of us are more open than others and make no attempt to hide how we feel.

Bors, understandably, is inconsolable. Shattered by Dagonet's loss. He makes no attempt to conceal it. Doesn’t care that anyone ... everyone ... witnesses his pain. His anguish. He openly weeps and seeks solace from Vanora. Accepts the comfort and the love she willingly bestows upon him.

My kinsman and shield mate, Gawain also grieves. Grieves for the brother he too loved and respected. His usually good-humoured, attractive face is stricken, bright blue eyes clouded with sorrow. And for once, he is silent ... sullen. Not his fun-loving, light-hearted self.

And then there's Tristan.

He stands to my left. Perfectly still. At first glance, he appears to have reverted to type. Living up to his reputation of a cold, callous, unfeeling bastard. Hard as stone. Cold as ice. Yet I know better. I can't help being aware of the tension within him as it waits to be unleashed at any time. At the least provocation. Of the fury, desperation and pain he's struggling to contain. His face is a sombre mask, concealing his true emotions and thoughts. Feelings which he guards fiercely from everyone. He stares impassively ahead. Never at the large mound of rich, brown earth at his feet, where his lover now eternally rests. Finally free and at peace.

Tristan's a complex soul. An enigma. A mystery to us all. Except to Dagonet. The one he loved ... And Dag had been one of the few with the patience, interest and the compassion to try and understand our deadly killer. They bonded. Became close. Were kindred spirits. And much to the mercurial Aorsi Scout's astonishment, our gentle Roxolani Healer returned his love. Unreservedly. Wholeheartedly.

Tristan stares with unseeing eyes straight ahead. Seemingly oblivious to all that's around him. Not hearing or comprehending what's being said in tribute to his loved one. He appears aloof. Distant. Uncaring. To folk who do not know him, Tristan looks bored. As if he doesn't give a shit. That he'd rather be anywhere but here ... That he's slipping away from us. Retreating and shielding himself behind those bloody thick, high defensive walls of his. But on closer inspection, as I covertly glance at him, I know for a fact that definitely isn't the case. Tris _does_ care.  He hurts. He grieves. And he suffers intensely. Far more than we give him credit. Yet unlike the rest of us, he's unable to show it openly. To share his pain. To let others see his vulnerability ... and the only one he'd willingly allow to see him at his nadir, is the one he now silently mourns and yearns for.

Once you know what you're looking for ... the tell-tale signs, it's so bloody obvious that Tris is distraught. You can tell by the way that he holds himself. See the tension in his shoulders which travels down his lean, whip-cord, sinewy frame ... the tautness of his jaw-line. But the dead give-away ... what truly reveals how he really feels are those ever observant, sparkling golden eyes which have become cloudy and dull with pain ... with sorrow. Those striking, mesmerizing, intelligent orbs which used to be so lively ... now appear cold. Lifeless.

I look at Tris and can't help feeling when we lost Dag - when he died - we also lost Tristan. That a vital part of him died that day too. That Dagonet's sacrifice broke him. That he no longer cares enough, nor has the will to live. Has no desire, no wish to carry on without his Healer ... I can't help shuddering as that feeling of foreboding intensifies within me and I fear for Tris. For his welfare. His sanity.

Hell ! I freely admit no one's capable of annoying me as greatly as Tristan. Not a day goes by that we don't argue over something ... yet since Dagonet's passing, there hasn't been a cross word between us. It's as if our deadly Scout has lost the will to tease, taunt and torment me. That his heart's no longer in it. What used to greatly piss me off in the past, I'd now give my eye teeth to have back. To have Tristan provoke me. Have him smirk infuriatingly as I predictably lose my temper with him. See the wicked gleam of mischief in those golden eyes as he takes great pleasure in seeing me rise to the bait. Now I miss it and would do anything rather than see the broken shell of a man that now stands beside me.

I see my fellow knights as my kin. My brethren. And I love them dearly. Dag was my big brother. My rock. The one I could always rely on.

Bors, despite being obnoxiously loud-mouthed and opinionated, can always be depended upon. And is the one you most want on your side. Watching your back in times of trouble.

Gawain's like the sunshine. Warm. Bright. Always able to lighten my moods and make this dark, miserable life feel better than it truly is. He's my best friend and my kinsman. The one who understands me and the only one capable of dealing with my foul temper.

And Tristan ... ? He's the one who made it his personal mission to keep me on my toes; makes sure I always keep my guard up and that I don't give my trust too freely or too lightly. He's an annoying, arrogant shit, yet despite his faults, Tris is my brother and I can't help but care for him.

Yet I know that any compassion I show him, any comfort I might offer, would not be well received by him ... and I happen to like my guts where they're supposed to be. As my innards and not wrapped around my neck like a gods-damned bloody scarf ! And that's partly why I, for once, hold my tongue and keep silent. ‘Cause when all's said and done, this is _still_ Tristan. Mercurial. Unpredictable. And lethal. He's still ruthless ... bloodthirsty. Feral. Even more so now ... now that Dag's no longer here to calm and reason with him. To keep the savage beast within him tethered and caged ...

So, regretfully, I bite my lip. Remain silent and allow my sorrowful gaze to fall upon the latest addition to our hillside cemetery. A place that is marked by an all too familiar, beautifully crafted bastard sword. To where Dag rests before he finally returns as a great warhorse, free to roam our Sarmatian plains. At peace and free from Rome's oppressive shackles.

**Finis**


End file.
